


Come into the Light

by JerichoTM



Series: Dance Dance Dance [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Burlesque Club, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Background Relationships, Fluff, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Other, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, bad child rearing techniques, none of them know what they're doing, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 13:59:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10923252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JerichoTM/pseuds/JerichoTM
Summary: “We could take him.”“Stevie.”“What?”[In which none of them deserved the life they got, so I made them another one]This is a re-posting from a different account.





	Come into the Light

It took very little to make someone smile less, to make them feel undeserving of love, to make them feel worthless: the constant “no, I’m busy” from a parent; the isolation caused by a few… multiple misunderstandings.

It’s usually unintentional. Usually.

Or, well, it was in the situation surrounding the child of Howard Stark.

It was a classic case of the neglectful father: didn’t, shouldn’t, and couldn't were common in the small household.

_To a dad who didn’t know how to dad, from a son who didn’t know any better._

It could have gone the usual route. Dad never tells son he loves him, never spends time with him, immerses himself into work resulting in the child growing up with daddy issues the size of Australia and a perpetual grin that never succeeds to reach his eyes.

However, that was not what would happen. They wouldn’t have allowed it.

_To the dad who didn’t know how to dad, from the family who thanks you every day for your negligence._

Howard didn’t like the feel of the kid in his arms. The doctors had said that he would grow used to it, even grow to want it and ache for those times when the kid would no longer want the constant attention, but the connection just wasn’t there.

It made him wonder what kind of father he’d turn out to be if it never formed.

With Anthony (an old family name, as much as it didn’t fit the babe in his arms) tucked against his breast with one arm, he fumbled with the keys using the other. The costumes slung precariously over his forearm teetered slightly, almost falling to the ground of the sketchy alley, but miraculously managing not to.

He jumped a decent foot in the air upon hearing the whining of the creaky door as it opened before he could find his key. His paranoia was on the rise, amplified by the sleep he hadn’t been getting in the last few months.

The tired man had worked long enough at the joint that he didn’t even think to question the absence of the person who’d opened the door (or how they’d known to open it in the first place, _but that wasn’t important_ ).

The heavy beat of the music vibrated through his chest with each step that he took into the club and he only wrinkled his nose slightly at the heavy scent of mixed perfumes in the air, while when he had first started working here it had taken almost everything in him not to gag. The poor baby in his arm(s) was less used to the smell, obvious by the way he buried his face back into his father’s vest.

Howard had, of course, taken the back entrance as all employees were mandated to, but the purpose of the quiet entrance was almost null as the swaddled baby in his arms, looking barely a few months old, made small snuffling noises that seemed to be a prelude for a long screaming match that was the reason his father had gotten barley three hours of sleep in the last few days. He was more agitated than a man before before his first cup of coffee.

Usually the club calmed him after a while (it was weird, but he figured the perfumes in the air were some sort of calming agent), like a nice buzz and a shot of Jack Daniels. He hoped it would get him through the night of hell he was about to endure.

Howard only barely managed not to flinch when a woman appeared from seemingly nowhere next to the second pair of curtains.

She was clad in a skin tight black dress that accentuated all the right assets ( _not that she had any visible wrongness to her, not at all_ ), wearing matching heels to complete the outfit. Her skin seemed horribly pale in the low lighting, a feature that was only emphasized by the rouge applied immaculately to her lips. The old fashioned curls encasing her face were a clear callback to the thirties, but anyone with any sort of sanity left in them knew not to say anything about it unless the utterance was a compliment.

The baby in Howard’s arms let out a small whimper before going suspiciously silent. The wide chocolate brown eyes looked at the woman with an expression that would have come across as shocked on anyone else, almost reverent.

The woman couldn’t help but spare a small smile to the baby. It never got old.

However, the moment she opened her mouth the spell of unworldliness and the anxiousness that came from something other than confronting his boss disappeared. It left a beautiful, yet pissed off, British mistress in it’s stead.

“You’re late. We’ve already been through two shows and all the patchwork that was done two nights ago was far from you best effort. Loraine had to go out in that defective thing!” She pointed to a nearly white powdered woman with vivid blonde hair as she came off the stage, looking unbothered by the fight and naked save for the stylized lingerie set she wore and the white feather scarf dangling loosely from her neck.

“It’s not that bad.” He eyed the dancer in confusion, trying to see what was wrong with the assemble.

“The straps on the garter belt,” she questioned only to receive a frown.

And then he saw the problem ( _a few dangling threads weren’t enough to go around your neck Howard, it’s fine_ ). He tried not to cringe at the poor job. “Ok, so maybe it’s pulling a little at the seams - “

“A _little_?” And it was at that point Howard knew to stop pushing, a shiver going down his spine ( _if he wasn't essentially inebriated, he would've run and never come back)._

“Ok, I’m sorry, I’ve been a little busy,” the man said, pointing to the bundle in his arms (he’d been crying almost none stop all day, _what the hell??)_.

“Please, like Maria isn’t handling all of the heavy lifting.” She was not impressed with the quality of work she had received and there was no excuse in the world ( _in the eyes of the devil and his consort_ ) that excused slacking.

Howard looked put off for a second before quickly shaking it off as he was reminded by someone roughly bumping into him that he had work to do. He handed off the scanty articles of clothing to a golden painted Ethiopian woman who did not at all seem impressed with the man’s barely put together appearance, sneering slightly as she went off to document and shelf the costumes.

“Howard, really,” is all Peggy said before she turned, commanding in her presence as she sharply handed out orders in an unknown language that made her sound like she was perpetually hissing to one of the nearest staff who nodded and quickened their pace. It was a clear dismissal if he’d ever seen one.

“Hey, how the hell is it all my fault? The kid’s been crying and Maria – STEVE!”

The petite blonde, fit in a black lacy corset, a garter belt with little blue ribbons tied into immaculate bows at the end of the Y-shaped straps, and thin stockings that were _just_ see through, winced at the man’s voice as the older Stark approached him and promptly dumped the bundle of blankets into his arms.

Steve was quick to adjust ( he only nearly dropped baby Stark once) before arranging his arms so he wouldn't cause anyone due injury. His eyes narrowed as he prepared to give the other a piece of his damn mind. He was quickly interrupted by the other's gabbing and barely withheld from making any noise as his arms were repositioned by the boy's father. 

“Support the neck.” Steve squawked as he was pat roughly and Howard head off in the opposite direction.

“Peggy! I go on in twenty minutes,” he hissed, looking incredibly uncomfortable as he glanced from her to the bundle in his arms.

The woman’s lips pressed together in annoyance, her eyes narrowing in the direction that Howard had taken off to, appearing to access how much it would cost her waistline if she decided to take a cheat day.

“Peggy!”

An amused huff from her part made him growl,  only calming down when someone called overhead about the lighting. There was a general air of amusement towards the situation as a whole despite the almost unanimous dislike of the child's father.

A baby in a burlesque club. How unique.

“He’s been doing this since Maria went back to work. With all due respect ma’am, but why the hell am I always on babysitting duty?” Steve barely kept himself from whining like a child himself ( _it wasn't fair)._ The baby Stark seemed completely oblivious to Steve’s hostility, reaching up for the sharp jawline with a free hand.

“Because you’re the only bastard that wouldn’t snap Stark in half for having the audacity.” And also, maybe, because Steve was one of the only friends Howard had at SHIELD.

“Well, I ain’t exactly child rearing material,” he snapped, teeth a little too sharp, but nonetheless fascinating to a baby who still saw everything in twenty fifty.

“Yet, the child likes you the best.” A secretive grin spread across her face, a glint of amusement showing in her smokey eyes.

Steve made a mocking face towards the club owner, rolling his eyes as he adjusted his grip and carried the kid with him into the changing room. His token protest of the day was fulfilled. No need for anyone to think he'd gone  _soft._

Like usual, upon entering the room, he was assaulted by the random shoe ( _sometimes it missed, other times not so much_ ). The word that best described the changing room: chaos. There was a naked limb here and there, hissing and screaming of _stop stealing my make-up_ and _that’s my bra,_ _քած_ , and the occasional assault of whatever poor bastard thought it was a good idea to come inside while they were getting ready _._

Some things never changed.

Steve could only sigh, feeling a wave of exhaustion hit him as he set the child down on the empty seat next to him, arranging it so that the boy was on his stomach. He attempted to cushion him slightly with the pillow, but it wasn’t a safe set up, overall.

It said quite a few things about their individual parenting's (or, rather, their knowledge of human children) that the most anyone protested about the child being placed on the chair like a doll was to say that it should have beena softer nest if it was going to be one (and a few of the silk scarfs were donated to the designated baby chair).

Anthony lay on the cushioning of the scarves, moving only rarely, completely at peace with the situation. The aroma that surrounded the club seemed especially potent in the small room, putting the child into a peaceful daze.

“Shouldn’t human children be more active than this,” a brunette asked, more curious than concerned. She seemed to be new to the club; Steve hadn’t seen her before.

Steve paused in lining his water line to glance at the child, pursing his painted lips slightly.

“Maybe he tired himself out? He’s always like this when he’s with us.” He reached over and pet the child’s head, fuzzy with the beginnings of full locks of chestnut hair.

He couldn’t help the flash of darkness that crept up his spine and into the corners of his vision, the little whispers of _hungry hungry hungry_ that raced through his veins and corrupted his bones becoming overwhelming for a moment.

Just for a second ( _he thought about pressing a lengthening nail into soft flesh and - )._

“I can bring a basket next time? Sansa swore by it.”

“And Sansa is _always_ right.” His voice was a wisp of a thing as he forced reason to the surface.

“At least he won’t fall off the chair, Stiofán.”

So they got a basket.

Steve decorated it with drying yellow lilies and white roses. Peggy had to throw it out the next day, hissing furiously at the lithe male ( _told him to stop starving himself, what good would that make him to her)_ who had seemed only slightly repentant. She replaced it with a basket that reflected ever so slightly in the right light.

The older Stark was never the wiser.

ᶤ ᶧ ᶧᶤ ᶧ ᶧᶤ ᶧ ᶧᶤ ᶧ ᶧᶤ ᶧ ᶧᶤ ᶧ ᶧ

“We could take him.”

“Stevie.”

“ _What?”_

The Stark baby wasn’t quite an infant anymore, turning to be a handsome little toddler at three years old. He was walking and talking (extremely well for his age; they were all _so_ proud).

Tony. They called him Tony now.

Unlike his father, the atmosphere of the club no longer appeared to affect him the way it had in the years previous. It was likely that his body had adapted to it in a way that an adult simply couldn’t.

The staff: the dancers, the bar keeps, and even the damn kittens, had grown to love Tony like nothing else. He was different from them, a beacon of light in the humorous darkness that the club entertained with a twirl and a bow (followed by an encore).

As the years had passed, Tony’s circle had grown. Steve no longer hesitated to show his affection for the child and took to guarding him ferociously, glaring at anyone who spent more than a minute within arms length. The longing looks had him feeling a sharp sense of satisfaction (Tony was _his boy,_ no one elses). And so, Steve had remained his favorite. The child had taken to clinging to his shorts (or stockings, depending on the set up) and following the dancer around like a little duckling.

And so Bucky, Steve’s partner since anyone could remember, had become Tony’s second favorite.

When he’d walk back stage Tony would make a run to him before anyone else, would start babbling about all the glitz and glamour and how _Steve had let him handle his make-up_ and Bucky would get this little smirk and act surprised.

He was good at acting, good at the things that made the slightly crazed gleam in his eyes shine like a damned beacon. Hell, Tony seemed to have developed something similar (Howard said it was something he’d grow out of; Bucky said it was a family trait).

“Howard works here, doll. We ain’t gonna steal the kid of the costume designer,” he said, teeth biting into the cig, balanced precariously, making his old Brooklyn accent (and god did Steve love it to death) stand out.

“But I wanna keep him.” He was scowling, annoyed at the unfairness of the situation.

“Don’t you worry, sweetheart. He’ll always be our boy.” The closest thing to a son either of them would ever have, or ever want.

And then the cigar was being removed and Steve was pulled into a burning hot kiss that tasted like coal and brimstone, the very uniqueness that was his lifelong soul mate, and filled his lungs with smoke. The slender male with the slightly crooked spine could feel the butt of the tobacco burning into the cold skin of his back, but made no move to pull away.

He smiled at the feeling of the all encasing warmth of his boyfriend; He barely had time to whine when the taller removed himself from the kiss, only to press their foreheads together with a glazed look of pure adoration and love in his eyes.

And Bucky only smiled when Steve pressed his lips to the junction of his neck.

ᶤ ᶧ ᶧᶤ ᶧ ᶧᶤ ᶧ ᶧᶤ ᶧ ᶧᶤ ᶧ ᶧᶤ ᶧ ᶧ

Steve eyed his appearance in the mirror, took in the bold royal blue of his pressed suit and matching tie, paired with the shortest shorts he’d ever had the good grace to wear. The loose fishnet stockings made his legs look miles long and were his favorite part of the assemble next to his similarly colored silk gloves.

He quietly took in the ever so slightly tanned skin, giving a small hmm in satisfaction of a well layered foundation. 

The next number required very little make up. He didn’t need to do anything extensive or particularly artistic (like the Broadway parody that had him painting the most delicate designs onto his cheeks) and he’d already covered the very basics, so he was willing to have a little “help”.

“Tony,” Steve called out, turning in the chair just in time to see the child enter the room.

The small (even for his age) boy looked incredibly out of place in the glam of the dressing room, wearing well worn-out jeans that were tattered slightly at the edges due to being too long and a white button-up that crinkled slightly in the way most clothes did when too big.

It made him want to take the child out shopping himself, but Maria wasn’t exactly very fond of him. He didn’t quite understand what he’d done to make the woman cross with him. She didn’t like the club either, but he supposed that not many married women would like the thought of their husbands working with half naked men and women every weekday night (Weekend nights they had some… particularly unsavory clients that wouldn’t hesitate to take open invitations).

Tony had grown into a fine darling; his hair had brightened considerably and seemed to be a mix shade of chestnut and lovely browns; his eyes reminded Steve of how his father had been in the beginning: bright and eager, _inspired._

Steve hoped that nothing would ever snuff that life, sought to enrich it with hope and none of the cynicism that was so prevalent among the older of the spectrum.

“Could you help me?” Tony was already eagerly climbing the chair only a foot away from the blonde. “The little black bottle with the white dot on the top. And the brush with the red tip,” he requested, deep voice soft in the unusually quiet room, before handing over the gray pouch. He’d color coded most of his supplies long ago because he’d learned that Tony was prone to getting frustrated quickly.

He was careful as he thumbed through the brushes, making sure not to damage them as he searched through the blue, the yellow, and the gold, until he finally found the red and placed it on the desk before reaching over to the small box that contained his liquids and quietly rummaged through that.

The boy proceeded to squirm a bit in the high chair as he found some difficulty in sifting through the numerous cosmetics. He let out a sound of triumph when he finally enclosed his small fingers around the small glass container.

Steve gave the child a smile in response, enchanting in visage, before he requested the boy to find a specific lipstick. This took much less time as the product was something the boy had learned to lock his eyes on whenever he sifted through the brushes. The lonely, thin, golden stick in the pile of brushes stuck out more than enough to find easily.

The boy’s eyes were drawn to the cursive writing along the side that shimmered like fire whenever it caught the light.

“Bucky gave it to me the second time we met. He knew how to get a fella." He seemed to melt, his eyes glazing as he remembered the event.

"Apparently it had belonged to the wife of the fourth son of a king. She was no princess, but a woman of grace and beauty.” Steve gave another one of his sharp smiles, only softened slightly at the edges by the warmth of the memory.

Tony’s mouth was tilted in a way that was him trying to pretend that he wasn’t interested (but he clearly was). He loved Steve’s stories despite his skepticism towards them (he was finally reaching the age where he was starting to realize some things were just impossible in the normal realm of things).

“The prince had stolen something from him.” Tony had frowned at that, nose scrunched in slightly disgust that mostly confusion.

“Why?”

“Because he wanted to impress her.”

“That’s dumb.”

Steve shrugged in response as he bent down to collect a scrap of fabric that had been carelessly tossed to the ground some time ago.

“And so he took something that belonged to both of them in compensation: stole his pride, their future. The hoarder.” The smile morphed into a playful smirk when he caught the devil of a man in the corner of his eyes, slinking into the dressing room unannounced. He had half a mind to throw his shoe at him for having the audacity to come in uninvited.

“My boys bonding over such an old thing? I’ve gotten you gifts miles better than that tube of wax.” Bucky teased, smile charming and posture relaxed.

Steve sent a warning glare over his shoulder and scowled upon hearing the giggle that came from Tony. He turned back to the mirror without a word, set on ignoring the both of them (Tony was becoming more like Bucky everyday; part of him wasn’t sure if he liked that while the other crooned with elation - _his boy his boy his boy_ ), and began to put on the lipstick, a sharp red to contrast with the blue of his other garments. It was tastefully artistic though not many were able to pull it off.

When he finally glanced back over at Tony, it was to Bucky whispering in the laughing boy’s ear, buff arms wrapped tightly around the boy’s shoulders ( _just slightly constricting)_.

“Watch your mouth, Buck, or I might just seal it.”

“Aw, sweetheart, don’t be such a tease.”

Bucky pouted, a look that shouldn’t have been so effective on a man as grown as him, but was enough to let him get off with only an annoyed hiss and a shove when Bucky placed a quick kiss to his boyfriend’s temple.

“Aren’t you on piano tonight?”

“Nope. It’s Clint’s night.” Bucky hopped onto one of chairs and began to fiddle with his shoulder length hair.

“Ugh, you vain punk, you look _fine._ ” But of course that wasn’t something that Bucky would believe coming from Steve’s mouth.

“Ya sure, says the one who once tried to convince me that going out in those leather boots was a good thing.”

Steve frowned as he thought of the personal failure.

“And you would’ve bought it if Nat hadn’t opened her big mouth.”

“Hey, now. Green don’t suit you, baby doll.”

And that was a lie. Steve’s jealousy was, of course, as legendary as his quick wit. Steve couldn’t count the number of men and women he’d sent home crying for daring to flirt with Bucky.

But Bucky loved his jealousy, loved the possessiveness that was a mutual feeling among the both of them.

“Tony! It’s time to go home!”

It hurt both of them to see the way the boy shrank into the chair, unwilling and unwanting to leave the club. In the early stages he’d hid ( _and the others had helped him, had enjoyed the frantic voice of Howard calling for the boy_ ) but with a firm glare (Peggy, of course) the child was always returned within minutes. Eventually, they stopped trying.

It hurt to see the boy who’d been so energetic, dim to the point that Steve would swear up and down that there was a little gray in the child’s pigment. It even made the club matron frown when she saw the boy walk to his father who barely spared a glance at him as he began his trek home.

Steve’s shiny tap shoes clacked against the near black flooring as he walked towards the exit, only to go stock still upon hearing the loud sound of the door closing. It always sounded so final, like a closure to a scene. Sometimes a panicked thought would go through him, something crying _what if he doesn’t come back_ and _what if he leaves us?!_

He knew he had a number of tells: flushed face, watering eyes, and fumbling hands. Anyone could tell that he was starting to lose it when his breathing grew uneven.

Before the thoughts could spiral into anything else (or something more substantial), a perfectly manicured hand was placed onto his shoulder.

There was a reason that Peggy had been chosen to be the owner. It wasn’t just because she had the most chance of not driving them into the ground financially, but also because she was a grounding presence, soothing with few words.

And like that the tension that had been building in the surrounding staff dissipated before the chatter of the previous minutes resumed and everyone was moving as if there hadn’t been a small period of silence for the boy’s departure.

Despite how the world around Steve had seemed to resume, he was still very much frozen in place. The hand that had been on his shoulder had slowly migrated to the back of his neck, closing around the slender muscle.

He couldn’t help the small cough he let out, blinking rapidly to try and clear his blurry vision (he’d never even noticed). And then there was another, rougher palm pressed against his cheek.

“...etheart, babydoll, come back to me honey.” Steve instantly recognized the baritone voice, and immediately clung to it, reaching up his hands to grab at the soft cotton that he knew Bucky was wearing.

The others carefully paid no mind to the conversation, turned their heads to the momentary weakness of their fellow employees.

They were smart enough not to say anything about the incident when they spoke to the blonde at a later time, still a tad gray from the breakdown.

They wouldn’t make that mistake again.

ᶤ ᶧ ᶧᶤ ᶧ ᶧᶤ ᶧ ᶧᶤ ᶧ ᶧᶤ ᶧ ᶧᶤ ᶧ ᶧ

“That kid of yours is getting pretty old now, ain’t he?”

Bucky raised his eyes from the piano sheet to the blonde in the sleeveless purple vest and a tad bit too much eyeliner on his waterline.

“Yeah, what of it?” He couldn’t help but sound slightly defensive, a low growl underlying every word he spoke. 

Clint smirked at the reaction before baring his teeth at the other condescendingly.

“You know I don’t mean _that_. I’ve got a deal going with Nat. Not to mention youngings aren’t exactly the best taste on my palate.”

“Then what are you askin’ for?”

The teasing look disappeared in parts. The mirth in his eyes as they turned stone cold was followed quickly by the smile that always seemed to play on his lips despite the context ( _the clown he was_ ).

“You know we love that kid like he’s one of us, but when are you going to make it official?” Bucky kept his eyes on the rag in his friend’s hand.

“We’re waiting.”

“For what? The coming of the next ice age? Or for the Queen of England to kick the bucket?”

“ _Clint.”_

At that the bartender threw his hands up in surrender, the serious moment lost to the void as the smile returned full force.

“We _know_ Steve wants the kid. And _you_ know how he gets when he wants something.”

And of course Bucky knew. These days he had to keep a hold of Steve’s arm every time the boy (because Tony was _t_ _en_ now) left the club.

“And _you_ know how Steve would get if he got what he wanted.”

(Moping, lots of moping, and crying – _why didn’t you stop me, Bucky?!_ )

“Fuck, I know I know. Just wish your boy wasn’t so confusing.” Too different, too sympathetic. 

“You’re one to talk, dating Romanova.”

“Do not go there, you whipped motherfucker.”

It was worth the tongue lashing to watch the skin under Clint’s eye turn a dark mixture of blue and purple. 

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of some violence towards Baby Tony early on. Nothing graphic but it can be a bit disturbing to some people.


End file.
